


Dreams of Warmth

by moodymarshmallow



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Established Relationship, M/M, prompted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 06:21:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodymarshmallow/pseuds/moodymarshmallow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for MsBarrows and Jillyfae on tumblr: Zevran is a vampire, and hungers for his old lover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams of Warmth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jillyfae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/gifts).



When there was nothing else there was always the hunger, gnawing and bubbling below the surface, slicing him open with its hard edge and taunting his empty desire. It was an old friend, the kind that knew how to kick you when you were down, yet still convinced you to forgive it in the end. And the worst of it was, though it was sick and unbearable, sometimes he wanted the wanting.

The grand joke was that the hunger made itself easy to sate. It made him more desirable, made his eyes glow with faint, preternatural light. On anyone else that pale shimmer would have been unsettling, but on him it only added to the mystique, of the chill on his cheek and the grace in which he moved. Had the Crows known how fast he was, how silent his step landed, how he could kill with an economy of motion that left bystanders thinking perhaps the wind had changed, and nothing more, they would have hunted him down just to take him back, to beg for his secrets. They wouldn't dream of killing him now, not when he was such an old friend.

But old friends were in short supply--Zevran's fault for running again, for hiding in dark taverns and undercities, for sleeping in rafters with one eye open, lest someone discover him, lest his dreams lead him on foolish paths.

He did still dream, a surprise to be sure, especially when they were so much less fantastic then they were when he was alive. He dreamt of apples and sunrises, of warmth, of slipping his tongue into his lover's mouth without worrying about the fangs. Sometimes they were so real that he would wake and almost feel his heart beating.

That was why he went to Denerim, in the end, hopping rooftops and stalking around guards, ignoring cats that saw him and hissed, their feline glares speaking of uncanny knowledge. They knew him better than he knew himself now, and swished their tails in fury until he stepped away.

Some things didn't change. In his mind he was ever the rake, eyeing strangers with wide-lipped smiles, having learned to hide fangs early on, having learned that, even if he slipped, most of them didn't care. He could have them all, if he wanted. He could glut himself until blood pounded in his ears like some great drum, like the ringing of church bells and the march of an army. He could hold the world on his tongue and swallow it down, feeling its fire in his belly.

But what he really wanted was more simple, more sentimental, and it led him through the servant's doors, nervous despite himself, skirting around kitchen cats and guard dogs, slipping up stairwells after blowing out torches, a nervous sort of excitement bubbling through him like a stream.

He found him where he knew he would, in a half-empty bed, disheveled and bare, his arms stuffed under a pillow, the cool moonlight draped over his naked back like a robe. Zevran smiled, sighed though he didn't need to breathe, and went to his side to feel the warmth radiating off of him, to feel his heart beat in the slow rhythm of sleep, to just watch him for a moment and remember when they were young and alive and Aedan's eyes were the loveliest shade that he could recall ever seeing, and even then the sentimentality made him snort.

Aedan shifted and stretched, his movements languid, and Zevran sat down on the side of the bed to be closer, to stroked the long line of his body and wait for him to wake.

"And here I thought you'd never come back," Aedan said, his tongue thick with sleep. "You're such a fool sometimes." Though Zevran was stronger now, stronger than Aedan had ever been, he let himself be wrapped him up his arms, crushed to his chest, his head cradled far too close to his neck, the thump and rush intoxicating him immediately, turning his vision red and tightening the knot in his stomach until it ached like an old wound.

"I have been...safe," Zevran said, finally, closing his eyes as he nuzzled into Aedan's neck, breathing him in. "It has always been better for me to--"

"You're so cold." With a smooth movement, Aedan wrapped them in the blanket, though it would have never made a difference in the chill of Zevran's skin. "And you're still an idiot, after all these years."

"Some things do not change," Zevran admitted, pressing a soft kiss to Aedan's jaw.

"No, they don't, do they?" With a firm hand, Aedan pressed Zevran to his neck, craning it to the side to expose it better, to stretch the skin so tight over that vein that Zevran saw it pulsing just under his skin.

"I--"

"You have always been welcome here."

"Ah."

His teeth sunk in smoothly, like a well sharpened dagger, and immediately his mouth filled with fire, with blood, with life and lust and unbearable sweetness. It warmed him, curled his toes and dug his hands into Aedan's flesh, leaving indentations that would be bruises in the morning. He felt Aedan's heart, his dizziness, the stiffness of his cock between them, pressing to his thigh, and when he pulled away, he felt him beg for more.

When there was nothing else, there was always Aedan Cousland and the bed he should have shared with his wife, the one that, instead, Zevran crept into at night and curled up with him like a cat, stealing his warmth and his strength for a day. He laid lazing with him in the morning with the curtains drawn, feeding him grapes and wine and, if he was wanting, riding him though it was never quite the same. And when he slept it was with both eyes closed, dreaming of simple, pretty things, like green-blue eyes and the soft press of lips against his forehead.

That, somehow, had never changed.


End file.
